Day 28: Skeltonic Poems

An American Tail 

American tail 
Fable’s boat set sail
Cow mouse out on bail
Crazy tall tale
That you can sale
Like a hay bale
So. Go ahead, tell.
Make a sell
Ring a bell
To your man, Dale

Scary thought 

Here a scare:
Solar flare
Ready to tear
Not prepare?
Best beware!
We outta here!
Going where?

Ferryman trouble

Losing control
With all these souls
their hearts, I stole
so they pay a toll
These legend told
From breath that’s cold

Day 27: Popsicle pleasure

I held the popsicle’s wooden base as fruit juice sprinted & laced my hand

I enter it into my mouth to catch the first flavor wave as it crash onto my beached tongue. An iceburg washed ashore, it melts inside my arid summer mouth and brings my temperature down 10 degrees.

Leaking sugar sweet water on thirsty taste buds as an offering for their worship. Each drop sending them into a euphoric trance The multi-flavors bewildered my brain’s identity recognition.

To the point,
My mind visualizes a grapple, a strawnana, and an orange pineapple.
Muscles of my tongue become coils of boa constrictor wrapped around popsicle.
Squeezing and breaking it down until the last drop. Sucking the juices down my throat like a vacuum from Hoover.

Damn! It taste so good.

My joy concludes as the stick is scrape clean by my teeth and out the mouth.


Day 25: My Picture Folder

My computer can lose everything except: My Picture folder
Nestled on my desktop screen,
My Pictures folder is my little large gallery.
A gallery of a scattered past:

My father’s last photo
My first child’s confused look at a camera
My second child’s confused look at me
My brothers’ nights out
My self-portraits
My self-portraits

You don’t realize how much change
until gleams at your former self.
Face is still there
Blemishes & lines are new.

I become Alice
step into imagery Wonderland
And be lost for hours
Some pictures hurt
Some pictures heal
But a white rabbit will remind me
it’s time.

Closing time to the past once again.
Close the folder & be present once more.

Day 22: To (Poetically) Prune a Bonsai Tree

Bonsai tree grows in a paper shaped flower pot
Covered in letter leaves,
The root meaning fasten deep in the soil
With vine coiled word branches,
It reaches for the sun

My number 2 pencil clips the word branches
Trim letter leaves
Shape phrase patches
And thin crown statements
Defoliate to uncover the poetry scheme
To reveal the poem of a Bonsai Tree

(If needed, creation pruning the title base.)

How to Prune a Bonsai Tree in 7 steps

Day 24: Hunting Season

The bugle horn sounds
two shadow of men run from the glaring sunrise
Deep into the dark labyrinth forest
The hunting party comes

The bugle horn sounds
Dogs barking with excitement
Scent of human sweat has mist the air
Prey is near

The bugle horn sounds
One man is tired and fustrated
Discovers a hollow log & crawls inside
Other man continues to run
Before he realizes, he is alone.

Silent falls on to his ears
Where is the bugle horn sound
No dogs panting
Shifty eyes start to scan the forest
He is frozen solid with fright

Then a scream occurs from behind
He knows
The snails of prey feast on the man hidden in the log
He is alone.

He hide in a tall old flourish oak tree
His fingernails stab into the bark
Climbing to a tree branch with leafy camouflage
He looks though the hole for his hunters

Dog growls start to pierce the silence
Bush branches are broken for passage
Dogs appear as steeds with furry riders

“They’re bunnys?!”
He widen with shock
A weak branch breaks from behind
Guns unholstered and pointed at tree
With a devilish grin, one bunny speaks:
“What’s up, Doc?”

Day 23: Tako (elevenie)

Korean Barbeque
Sacramento food spot
Kimchi quesadillas & bulgogi burritos

Tako is a Sacramento Korean BBQ Food Spot. It has a Korean – Mexican infusion with burritos, burrito bowls, quesadillas, or Echiladas.  You should try the Kimchi eyerolls. Delicious.  

Day 18 – Ode to Ass lips

How can I forget
To spread my cheeks
And expose my ass lips
Amused by raspberries you can do
And a lit match, you can blow fire, too
Like my mouth, your burps are excused
But it’s weird that you have taste buds?

With diarrhea, my front line defense
known to keep a tight lips or talk shit
You pucker my posterior
But hold the flood gates closed.
Clean inspection after bombing is done
has left you with a shit eating grin
Sorry for all the burning
I forgot to drink water

If lips get chapped, apply the Vaseline
I’ll get a smile from ear-to-ear
that will seems obscene
And for those who dis, I insist
You can kiss my ass until my ass give you a kiss

Poet are Makers. Literally.


I just finish reading Webster article on the history of the word “poet.” It states the words early origin was Greek (poiete) and it meant “maker”. Then the 15th century, English Speakers put  the word “poet” in a high esteem role in the English language in association with God. It, finally, evolved to word maker to speakers and writers of poetry.

‘Poet’ comes from a Greek word meaning “to make.”

Emotional Scientist

This history lesson is incredible. A word that is commonly used for a word artist.  The evolution should give some pride to today’s poets. Plus, it is National poetry month. So, Poet, you have been told that your title has been used to represent deities and, now, it represent you. This title means your thoughts are connection between gods and humans.  You are an emotional scientists journalizing results to all social, environmental, spiritual, financial, political, and technical experiments. You are the vessel for understanding the world’s dark and light moments. So, be the god. Maker. Sayer. Poet.

Webster’s word history – Poet

Day 17 – truth’s eclipse (nocturne poem)

The constellations design
Characters in mind
That no logic can decide
The truth from your eyes

For the stars will shine
And others will believe lies
But they’d crossed the line
The truth is in your eyes

So the night starts hide
All demons far and wide
I know from your soul
The truth is in your eyes

Day 16 – Letter to the father (sonnet)

Dear Dad,
Your life on this earth is missed
My mind is left to reminisce
Your life resembles a play
And it’s shown by Grandma’s dismay

Her words strike my confidence
That I lost my common sense
A coward who didn’t interfere?
That your grave is buried somewhere

Is this how my kids will leave me?
The truth will likely scare me
I don’t entertain this picture.
Somedays, I wish I had a sister.

A grandfather to others but, not to mine
God, why couldn’t you give him more time?

Miss you,